


white noise

by IncognitoDuck11



Category: Pretty Little Liars
Genre: Character Study, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28909326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncognitoDuck11/pseuds/IncognitoDuck11
Summary: They understand each other. That much is clear.Spencer would argue that when Aria looks at her, she always knows why she acts like she does, and vice versa. They're soulmates in that respect, but it's funny because the very trait that links them is so goddamn painful. It's why their hearts beat so violently, why all that passion courses through their veins, why they pounce like lions on the objects of their attention.It's loneliness.
Relationships: Spencer Hastings/Aria Montgomery
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	white noise

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Burn it Down" by Daughter. Give it a listen while you read :D

-.-.-.-

They understand each other. That much is clear. 

Spencer would argue that when Aria looks at her, she always  _ knows _ why she acts like she does, and vice versa. They're soulmates in that respect, but it's funny because the very trait that links them is so goddamn painful. It's why their hearts beat so violently, why all that passion courses through their veins, why they pounce like lions on the objects of their attention. 

It's  _ loneliness. _

A Hastings is everything but weak, Spencer learns as she grows up. Her family holds her at a distance, but it's out of love. They want her to be strong, they insist she be able to take care of herself, and she understands from a young age that you have to  _ earn _ praise in this world. At first, when she aces a test or wins first place in the school-wide spelling bee, it feels like a Medal of Honor has been pinned to her chest. Her parents treat her to dinners and gifts when she's little and can still push herself beyond expectations. But as she grows in height, so does the bar, and it rises exponentially. At some point she has to jump just to graze the bottom of it with her fingertips, and by the time she starts middle school it's impossible to reach. 

It's too late, though. She watches her parents dote on Melissa and can't bear to give up hope that they'll treat her better, too, if only she reaches the bar. So she becomes an acrobat of sorts, jumps through all kinds of hoops and walks across tightropes, and sometimes she can vault herself over the top. She hears a roar of appreciation in these moments and then she plummets back to the ground, breaks every bone in her body on impact, but it's worth it because she gets a gold medal. 

She doesn't know how to stop. She doesn't think she would even know what to do with herself if she did, because that's just who she is. Her parents have raised a circus act, a prized show pony. They say jump and she says how high. She keeps going even when she's coughing up blood and she doesn't think she has anything left to give. It's then that she feels more like a soldier, and she screams at herself to get up and move and keep going until she's dead because nobody is going to help her otherwise.

Quickly, she realizes that her peers don't share this do or die sentiment. That they're not like her, that she's too intense in her striving, and she learns to put on an amicable facade. She learns to hold people at a distance and smile in their faces, and she doesn't allow herself to hope for anything else. 

But then she meets Aria and recognizes a kindred spirit. She's drawn to her quirks and her unapologetic nature, and she admires the freedom her tiny friend operates under. Perhaps incorrectly, she assumes that she's earned that freedom somehow, and she thinks that Aria is one of the strongest people she's ever met. What must it be like to not have obligations, to be yourself no matter what, to scoff at societal expectations? 

Spencer doesn't think about what it's really like because the grass is always greener and Aria has an entire expanse of earth all to herself, an open field to frolic in. She doesn't realize that it's all fun and games until you turn around and realize that you're the only one laughing because you're the only one around. Not another soul occupies Aria’s plane of existence. 

A Montgomery is an individual, through and through. Her parents drilled this into Aria's head, reminded her that she's free to be as unique as she wants. It is nice initially, knowing that nobody owns her, that she is in full control of herself. When she's a little girl, she loves it—she loves being able to wear what she wants to school and pick out whichever book she wants from the library. She grows up reading from the higher shelves, learning things she doesn't yet have the capacity to fully understand, but her parents insist that this makes her mature. 

So she’s  _ mature _ , and that's the first word besides  _ unique _ or  _ individual _ that she applies to herself. All the adults echo it and the other kids on the playground admire it, so she learns to stand a little straighter and tilts her chin up. Then she leaves elementary school and her social world becomes more complex, and suddenly she's more of a freak than anything. An outlier to be criticized and laughed at. Her parents have prepared her for this, of course, but it doesn't make it hurt any less when she doesn't get invitations to birthday parties anymore. 

She attempts to adjust, tries on different styles and personalities until she barely knows who she is anymore. Her parents let her do her own thing, per usual, and tell her to trust her gut, but she doesn't  _ know  _ where she's going or how to get there. There's too many choices and it gives her a headache, but she's  _ mature _ and ahead of her time and she knows how adults are supposed to act. They suck it up and get on with things, even if their brain feels like it's melting. So she prides herself on being open-minded and latches onto another new identity. 

Ask her, and Aria would say it's naïve. Spencer would argue that it's foolish. But when they're in each other's company, they know that what they really want is someone to look at them and  _ see _ them and reassure them. They want to be understood and told that they're not alone because loneliness  _ hurts _ . It would hurt anybody, but maybe they're both too stubborn to admit to that kind of pain. Because everybody else feels it too and they're  _ different _ . Always have been. 

They can't be anything else. If they allowed it, if they tried to shift their very natures, their fragile identities might crumble into dust and then where would they be? 

And that's why it's so easy to ignite. That's why when they decide what they love, it shatters them to pieces when it's taken away. They're both too strong to be this fragile, but that's the very essence of gunpowder, isn't it? All it takes is a tiny spark and an intrinsic instability makes itself known. They burn and they burn and when they burn out, there's hardly anything left. The aftermath is bloody and nobody escapes without a chunk taken out of them, but it's fine. 

Because the flames are warm, and they lean into that comfort with great urgency. The fire is pretty as it flickers, breathtaking, and one thing they both appreciate are aesthetics. Beautiful things are deadly, but maybe it's worth it when the alternative is to slowly slowly  _ slowly  _ suffocate in your own wretched company. 

They become accustomed to making a choice between two different kinds of insanity every day of their lives: chaos or monotony. Aria doesn't mind a little chaos, but Spencer doesn't trust it. She doesn't trust herself with it while Aria can contain it in brush strokes and prose, and that's another thing that makes Spencer jealous. Spencer wrestles with it always. Aria tames it. 

But sometimes it gets the better of them. 

Sometimes it's like a dying star in their chests. Sometimes they just need to slip into a state of all-consuming darkness, a black hole. To consume and corrode and destroy until they feel better again. And, usually, what follows this chaos is that smothering monotony. 

_ Deadness _ .  _ Nothingness _ . 

A dead deer on the pavement, mangled and cold and stinking with rot and flies. Everything else is white noise. They might as well not exist. So they don't. A name tag with  _ Jane Doe  _ is pinned on their shirts and they are free to remake themselves as they wish. 

The funny thing is: they can't. Because if something is in your nature, then it’s ever-present. And you can't  _ really _ destroy yourself if you’re stuck in a fucking cage, a purgatory where you're expected to be you even when you  _ just can't  _ anymore. They're left slamming their heads into iron bars, breaking pretty painted fingernails off against concrete, clawing at the collars on their necks. Scratching at themselves, hoping to bleed dry before  _ help  _ can arrive. Of course, it always does. Nurses and psychiatrists and loved ones and everyone else that doesn't want them to change, that think it’s such a bad thing that they're  _ not acting like themselves _ (whatever that even means), tend their wounds, heal them until they're just as stagnant and stuck as before. And it's always  _ almost almost almost…  _

Almost escape. Until a little tough love is applied. Until someone steps in because they're acting  _ crazy _ and _ you need help _ and  _ who are you to decide how you want to live?  _

So they're left to readapt to what got them by in the first place: jumping through hoops, trying on different identities. Hoping that something will lock into a groove and knowing deep down that it won't. Not without a radical change that they can't seem to achieve without raising red flags in everyone's minds. And this knowledge is painful. This knowledge is ugly. Neither of them want to look it in the eye. 

It's easy to put up a wall or down a pill or get lost in seas of text. It's how they cope. Numb it, ignore it, and repeat.  _ Don't look, don't think about it, because you just might lose your mind _ . They just might lose the last shred of themselves that's keeping them alive, the part that's hidden away from everyone else. And they know they can't risk it. 

It's jarring for both of them to realize that there  _ is _ someone else with access to that precious glimmer of truth. Someone who could destroy it or nurture it as they see fit. It scares the hell out of both of them, frankly, to know that they could be mistaken, to know that trusting each other not to ruin it all is a monumental risk.

But there's also the overwhelming sense that they're  _ right _ to trust it _.  _ Because they're two halves of a whole, aren't they? Self preservation is in their nature, and hurting each other is detrimental to that goal. They're  _ right  _ to trust it because together it seems like all they can do is  _ expand _ . They can breathe and they can exist how they need to in each other's company. 

Spencer has no trouble drawing in oxygen and drifting into some kind of peaceful slumber when Aria is wrapped around her in bed. She doesn't feel small and worthless and imperfect on the days when all she can manage to do is break down, because Aria is there and Aria doesn't chastise her for any perceived weakness. Never. She just tucks Spencer's aching brain under her chin and cradles it to her chest, tells her to listen to her heartbeat and let it all out. And Spencer does, she's allowed to, because Aria doesn't mind snot and tears getting on her shirt collar. Aria doesn't hold her at arms length and look at her like she's a squashed cockroach under her heel, like she's defective and needs to be fixed. If she needs to, Aria cries in messy, ugly sobs with her, and if she doesn't, she just strokes her hair and whispers all the right things that make Spencer feel a little less hollow.

And Aria feels at home when she's in Spencer's arms and they're slow dancing in their living room, trying not to trip over the stacks and stacks of books on the floor because they haven't bought bookshelves yet. Spencer will grab her in a bear hug and lift her, spin her around, and Aria swears that it's what birds must feel like when they fly. She kicks her legs out and tightens her arms around Spencer's neck and all but shrieks with laughter. And Spencer's laughing, too, especially when her arms are aching and her legs give out and she flops them down onto the hand-me-down couch that they found, maybe not ideally, in a thrift store. 

Together, they discover what being whole feels like. Every casual touch between them holds more warmth and comfort than either of them can process. Every time skin brushes skin, accidentally or otherwise, it makes their hearts beat a little faster. It's new and exciting, like a roaring inferno. Or it's soothing and validating, like a smoldering campfire. Either way, it makes them feel alive. It makes them feel so alive that it's almost too much to bear, it's almost too hot, and the only way they find to remedy that discomfort is to die. 

Death is accessible with each other. Between suffocating heat and breathless nights, they're made to die over and over and over again. It's in shuddering flesh and whimpered moans that they're released from cages, that pleasure launches them, untethered, into orbit. It's almost painful to be that vulnerable, to burn up in each other’s dying embers, but it's always actualization they find when it's over. It's fulfillment, it's fullness, it's an overflow that stops time itself as it runs over. There's beauty and there's freedom in it, in tracing calloused fingers over hills and valleys and plains of skin. There's ugliness and there's terror in it, in sweat-drenched, tightened muscles and that feeling of freefall, in fingernails scrambling for purchase. It's the kind of frightening that comes with staring into an abyss. But it's okay because they're facing it together, and together they're safe. 

Safety is not something they take for granted. Not after everything. Between pretty lies and ugly truths, they’re both too cautious, too wary to do anything else but grab onto that feeling and never let it go. Because it’s rare. Because it’s little things that get to them these days. It’s switchboards and coffins and shotguns and shovels. It’s tight spaces and sirens and black hoodies. It’s the chime of a text message and the smell of damp earth when it rains. They’re thrust back into a highwire kind of panic at the tiniest, sometimes most arbitrary scents and sights and feelings. 

But their hands search for the other’s, and they get through it together. They hold on tight and feel the tension in skin and muscle. It’s hard to lie when they get like this, because the fear is written in every facet of their bodies. They’ve never been liars, at least when it comes to emotions, their hearts burned into their sleeves, charred and soaking their wrists in vibrant crimson. They can read each other like so many books with this makeshift ink, open pages fluttering in the wind, and because they’ve learned all about the damage that lies can do, they tell each other the truth. 

They make candor a habit. It’s in 'I love yous' and eye contact and each of the banal couple things that they partake in. It’s when something goes wrong. And they’re not perfect, but it works. They don’t need to be perfect; perfection is overrated. 

Neither of them believe in marriage, so there’s no white dresses or bouquets or fanfare. They don’t quietly elope at a courthouse. They just are. Honesty is in the knowledge that they’ll last. 

And they do. 

Time catches up to them eventually, but they live their lives. 

Together. 

-.-.-.-


End file.
